I don't want you to ever doubt
that there isn't anyone who loves you as much as I do.
You hold my health, when you hold my hand.
And when you hold my hand,
I'm above the sidewalk cracks and glass.
So I'll fight with a pen, scrap it all and then start again
till I find a way to sing and say "I love being married to you."
Around you I try to be at least mechanically fair.
And when it all works out,
you're a muse of sorts with strawberry hair.
You're branches above gorgeous on a makeupless day.
I bet all the fellas at your workplace hope I die,
so that they can write you poetry, guiltlessly.
So, I'll fix this chair, and after that probably vacuum the stairs.
I'll idle above your lists of cares.
I love being married to you.
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